


That's Not My Forte

by volliglosgelost



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, 2010s, Everyone Is Gay, Inspired by Music, M/M, Musicians, Punk!England, different decades of music, gradually gets more sexy as time goes on, includes graphic descriptions of vinyl abuse, some mentions of prucan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24740617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volliglosgelost/pseuds/volliglosgelost
Summary: Seven decades of British and American music, seen through the eyes and heard through the ears of the countries themselves. In a post World War Two world, the emerging music scenes from these two countries are bringing forward the promise of a new world, a new life in some aspects. And although it might not always be to England's forte, he can't deny the cultural progression.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38





	1. 1958

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the music of the US and UK. Set throughout seven decades and seven chapters, I'm here to take you on a journey of friendship, romance and smashed music players. 
> 
> Playlist of all the songs mentioned in this story:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3TA9SwetX7uvSLrybsntrw?si=QO3f-vXpRhyGZS5mb1Njnw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1958\. America enjoys Elvis Presley and England is obsessed with Cliff Richard.

If there was one thing America was proud of in the 1950s, it was his country’s music scene. He’d watched in envy at England across the pond as he celebrated Vera Lynn and her lovely vocals, but it wasn’t right, somehow. It didn’t translate to the post World War American nation properly. It wasn’t poppy, or fast, and certainly didn’t represent the conglomerate country that the USA was shaping up to be.

America knew that change was coming, he could feel it in his bones. The Montgomery Bus Boycott of 1955 made him grin in anticipation, finally knowing that the long-held prejudices of his people may be lifting. Shaking Rosa Parks hand at an official presidential rally, pumping it up and down with a broad beam on his face (not that she knew who he was, of course - she assumed he was just part of the press) gave him a deep sense of satisfaction. 

The rifts across the US were mirrored in his body, in deep scars produced by years of infighting, the assassinations of two Presidents and worldwide wars. But slowly, the deep dark bags under his eyes that the World War had drummed into his bones were loosening. Lightening up a little. He knew England could see the difference too.

“You look good,” his friend (friend? America wasn’t sure of their official relationship, it was murky at best) said, sipping his tea from a china cup, high up in the top of America’s penthouse apartment. Outside the window, the landscape of New York stretched out before them, the Empire State Building standing proud and glinting in the skyline.

America had to smile at that sight. When he’d first announced his plans to build the tallest building in the world at that World Meeting, England had scoffed. “Compensating for something?” he had smirked, quirking an eyebrow. But no, America just knew that his newly emerging nation needed to be known for innovation. In the previous Century, all that ever came to mind when the words ‘United States’ were mentioned was slavery, Civil War and ‘oh yeah, didn’t your president get shot in that theatre?’.

It had been many years since that World Meeting, years marred by war and horror and death. But here they were, him and England, sat in his apartment. Like nothing had happened. 

“I am,” America grinned, taking a big bite from his burger. McDonald’s had only been formed some fifteen years previous, but damn, it must be the best shit to come out of his country so far. Pickles, burger patty, a smidgeon of mayo… With salty fries and a Coke on the side too, of course! England was less of a fan, stubbornly refusing the company entry to his shores.

“It’s not big enough,” England said back then, grimacing at the suggestion. “I know you like it Alfred, but it’s unlikely to take off in the US, let alone here. Needless to say, our palates are a little more… Sophisticated.”

England had been incredibly up his ass ever since his new monarch had ascended the throne. America grimaced as he thought of the young woman who was leading the country. Needless to say, he didn’t get the idea of a monarchy. His country stood against all of that boring, old crap. 

And those palates were mostly based off of rationing, leftover from the war yet still. Although America had helped out his old friend as best he could, it had taken almost ten years to fully shake off the effects of that war in Europe. And England, with its mandatory rationing and poor fast-food chains, was one of the better-off countries.

But things had begun to settle out for the world a little more - if you ignored the commie situation in old Russia (which America often chose to). And he was positively thrumming with excitement as he chewed on his burger, devouring it so quickly that he appeared to be inhaling it. He was good. Better than good, in fact.

“I have something to show you, Artie!” America grinned even wider. England thought that his friend’s face just might split in half if the American insisted on smiling whilst showing so many teeth. Surely it hurt? Or maybe Alfred was just used to the stretching of his cheeks and jaw by now.

“Is that so?” England wasn’t massively impressed. America much preferred the modern world to the one of yesteryear, which was in complete opposition to England’s own preferred taste. He split his time between a quaint flat in Kensington (close to both Buckingham Palace and 10 Downing Street) and a sweet cottage in the rural hills of Herefordshire. America’s penthouse was neither quaint nor sweet - in contrast, it smelt mostly of bleach and newly opened, seldom used pre-packaged furniture. 

The elder country placed his teacup back onto its saucer with a quiet, gentle clink, before leaning back in the chair he was sat in. England rested his head on his hands contemplatively, bracing himself for whatever inane thing Alfred Jones had seen fit to grace him with on this particular evening. 

America nodded eagerly, burger finished. The paper packaging (emblazoned with a golden M that made England roll his eyes) was thrown unceremoniously on the ground, tossed aside like, well, rubbish. If England wasn’t quite so amused by America’s over-excitement, he would have demanded that the packaging be picked up and placed into a bin. But doing that right now would be like kicking a puppy, and despite himself England was slightly interested.

His friend walked over to the record player, thumbing through a pile of messily stacked records to its’ left. They looked like they could fall at any moment, and England winced as the stack wobbled and trembled. America was ignorant of the upcoming crash and thud - and broken record collection - that could have followed, and instead began to hum an unfamiliar tune under his breath as he searched.

Nothing could compare to Arthur’s beloved Cliff Richard, surely America knew that? Ever since the new musician had emerged with the dulcet tones of Move It only a month or so prior, England knew that something was brewing in the music scene of the United Kingdom. Not too far removed from the musical stylings of Vera Lynn, but different enough to usher in a new decade. 

England wasn’t entirely convinced on the whole ‘rock n roll’ schtick quite yet. But Cliff was a kind lad and had been kind enough to show the country some of his guitar skills and even offer him a lesson or two. And even if it wasn’t quite to England’s own taste yet, his people loved it. Sooner or later, he knew, he’d be obsessed with the whole new Rock n Roll genre.

Cliff Richard was a nice, steady introduction to this new kind of music. 

Whatever crap America had just put on wasn’t steady at all. It was far too fast, far too loud, far too… Far too…

“What the bloody hell is this shit?” England scowled, squinting his hearing to try and make out the words to the song America was blasting. Something about - was the madman singing about a jail? Dancing in a jail? What was this?

America grinned (did the man have another expression in his repertoire?) and waved his hands frantically at the record player. “Elvis Presley!” he beamed. “Jailhouse Rock! It’s a modern-day American classic!”

England groaned, holding his head in his hands. Elvis Presley. He’d heard of the man, of course - who hadn’t? The thrusting psycho that the British tabloids, and Arthur himself, loved to criticise. Women were practically ripping off their panties in anticipation of his concerts, and although the man himself had escaped off to the US Army only earlier that year, his music still permeated the airwaves.

England had managed to avoid listening to any of that ghastly noise up until now. Today did not seem to be his lucky day at all. 

Cliff Richard would never thrust his hips like that Mississippi devil. Cliff Richard was a calm, gentle Hertfordshire lad with a basis in skiffle and a penchant for calm Rock n Rol guitar playing. Cliff wasn’t… Sexy, or rude, or overly loud. Cliff was just Cliff.

I wonder if Cliff has met Elvis Presley? England thought to himself, as he pressed his fingers into his ears to try to drown out that awful noise. America had begun to dance now, prancing around the penthouse like a demented, drunk gazelle. He was definitely two of those things, at the very least. 

“Enough!” England scolded, getting to his feet and yanking the needle off the record. There was a scratching sound, and a whine from Alfred, as the older country pulled the record away from the player. 

“Be careful with that!” America complained, pouting from the other side of the room. “I have it signed!”

England scoffed, looking over the record with a beady eye. “This isn’t Cliff Richard,” he said simply, regarding the other country with a glare. “You need some Cliff in your life.”

“But Cliff’s boring,” America whined again, moving to grab the record from England’s grasp. “He isn’t like Elvis - Elvis is young, exciting, sexy - modern too! He really brings black and white music together y’know? Like it’s jazz, and classical, and country all in one!”

England’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Cliff?” he repeated, taking a step towards the open window. “Did you just call Cliff Richard boring?”

Before the younger country could do anything to stop it, England’s anger at his idol being besmirched overcame him. The beautiful, pristine signed Elvis Presley single record (A side Jailhouse Rock, B side Treat Me Nice) was hurtling downwards towards the pavement at breakneck speed.

It hit the kerb with a loud crash, before shattering into millions of tiny black Rock N Roll shards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos equals quicker updates and longer chapters!
> 
> McDonald's was introduced in the USA in 1940, they opened their third branch in 1953 and their first New England branch in 1958, so I'm sure Alfred would have been able to get his hands on one.
> 
> Cliff Richard released his first single Move It in August 1958.
> 
> Jailhouse Rock was released in September 1957.
> 
> Yes, Herefordshire and Hertfordshire are different English counties. Cliff Richard lived in one, I live in the other.


	2. 1964

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 1964, and Beatlemania has taken over the United Kingdom (and Arthur Kirkland).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love!

If you were going to tell the country and sovereign state of England that, in a matter of years after mercilessly destroying a priceless signed Elvis Presley vinyl, he’d be ripping off his waistcoat amongst a crowd of jumping girls, he wouldn’t have believed you.

But a lot can happen in six years. 

England and America had, let’s just say, rather _strained_ relations since Elvisgate ‘58. Although they were forced together on matters of official country business, they didn’t meet up for a cup of tea and a hamburger anymore. The other countries had noticed this strain but didn’t comment on it, for fear of England’s terrible cooking and even worse glare. Or, perhaps, if they were extra lucky, his magical fairy friends.

Elvis Presley had returned from his sojourn to the army and was still hanging around in the background. However, he was now playing second fiddle. Second to the new era that America had felt in his bones, the new era that England had been preparing to sweep his nation.

Except, the exact amount of new music that England had been expecting wasn’t what he got. Up in Liverpool, in the little spot above Arthur’s right nipple, a revolution was brewing. Music was coming. And Beatlemania was beginning to engulf the Americas as well as the British Isles.

How four young Liverpudlians had managed to achieve such an amazing _sound_ Arthur wasn’t massively sure, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to criticise it. After all, The Beatles were only the _beginning_. Then came the Stones with their sick riffs and enigmatic frontman, The Who and their mod fanbase, and finally (and England’s secret favourite), The Kinks. Mostly for the name, although their sound was crunchy and new and delightfully refreshing. 

But The Beatles were more than just a band. Their name was a codeword for a new era, a new reign of the greats of music, with the United Kingdom leading the charge. And Arthur Kirkland honestly couldn’t be happier.

Which is why he was here, frantically pulling open his waistcoat, and then shirt buttons, to reveal a mostly hairless chest with a massive Beatles tattoo emblazoned from side to pale side. That hadn’t been England’s proudest moment, produced after a drunken night out with Alistair, but at this moment it was _perfect_.

It wasn’t massively original either - in fact, it was just the lettering of The Beatles, in the distinctive sans serif, but in massive size. And permanently part of England’s body for now until eternity. 

The girls to his side gasped in glee as they took in Arthur’s massive chest tattoo, grabbing his shoulders and pushing them forward. “That’s amazin’!” The first grinned, looking the man up and down appreciatively. “They’ve gotta see this Julie!”

“Ah- ah, that won’t be necessary,” Arthur attempted to protest but was quickly swept up in a wave of screams of happiness. They had begun to play _Love Me Do_ \- their biggest single to date, and a guaranteed crowd-pleaser. Thankfully, the two girls abandoned their quest to push England to the front of the mosh, instead beginning to jump up and down in badly-tempoed tandem.

Arthur joined in with the crowds, singing along as best he could, shirt proudly hanging all the way open as he did. He personally (and quietly) preferred _Twist and Shout_ \- but that wasn’t true Beatlemania, because it was only a very well done cover. One simply didn’t prefer a cover to original work, after all. 

England was not a good singer, but he was a passionate one (especially when it came to Cliff Richard or The Beatles), and soon his voice had risen just as loud as everyone else’s. To their credit, nobody seemed to mind, or care, more taken by his amazing chest tattoo than his awful singing. 

But the concert was over all too soon. The noise wound down, the TV cameras rolled on back to the BBC with their cameramen in tow, and The Beatles wandered offstage - probably to do copious amounts of cocaine and women. Normally England could, and would, join them for an aftershow pint or two, but he wasn’t going to today. Despite his fangirling over the musicians, a country needed sleep, and he had to meet with the Prime Minister the following day. 

Harold MacMillian would soon be passing the reins of the country’s leadership over to a new person (there was no way he was going to stay in power after the Profumo Affair, and he was using his recent operation as a reason to resign) and, as always, he needed an exit interview of sorts. That mostly included England threatening the outgoing premier with grievous bodily harm inflicted by Flying Mint Bunny if he was ever to reveal that country personifications existed.

Unlike America’s relationships with his country leaders, England… _tolerated_ them. To say the very least, he wouldn’t be sad to see Harold leave. Cliff Richard would make an amazing leader of the United Kingdom, but sadly he was off being a world-famous star. England himself hadn’t seen his best friend/secret crush in almost a full year. 

England sighed heavily, reaching down to button up his shirt, pulling his waistcoat back over his shoulders. He knew his hair was dishevelled and probably stunk of sweat, but that was beyond his power to help right now. What he needed was a cup of tea in his Kensington flat, complete with a nice biccie - maybe a chocolate digestive…

“Hey bro!” 

England jumped in the air in terror, having been lost in thought until that exact moment. His shirt was still mostly unbuttoned and - stupid him - he’d started from the bottom rather than the top, leaving the majority of his garish tattoo on show.

_Oh fu-_

“I was just chatting to Ringo and I thought I’d come over to say hi!” America beamed widely, anger seemingly forgotten. “Hey bro! Cool tattoo!”

England blushed a bright scarlet red and furiously shook his head. “What tattoo?” he tried to deflect in vain, turning away from his friend and frantically trying to button up the remaining ones. “I- I don’t see any tattoos!”

“The one on your chest, silly,” America was grinning now, closer to England than he had been for half a decade. “Hey, man, I just wanted to say, y’know - no hard feelings about the record? I managed to get a new one off Elvis pretty quickly.”

 _Why was he bringing this up now?_ It had been years since the incident, and from the way America had dealt with England since the fateful day, it definitely didn’t seem like ‘no hard feelings’. In fact. Arthur had had the sneaking suspicion that he might have woken up one day to find all his teabags in the river Thames.

England chose to ignore all this, though. _Not worth my time_ , he chanted to himself, under his breath, looking across at his fellow country in bewilderment. Hopefully, he was managing to keep the confusion off his face. “Ringo?” is what he decided upon replying, after a beat of silence. “You two are friends?”

America seemed like he had chosen to ignore his previous words too, and nodded enthusiastically. “We go _wayyyy_ back,” he smirked, looking over at the stage. “They’re getting pretty big over in the States too, y’know.”

For the first time since spotting the brunette, England chuckled and smiled. “The English Invasion,” he confirmed, with a returned smirk. His hands dropped to his sides, too preoccupied with taunting Alfred to obscure the rest of the tattoo. “Almost reminds one of the 1700s, doesn’t it?”

Alfred seemed far too calm and relaxed, even when teased with his colonisation. He just nodded, seemingly pensive. “I prefer the Stones though, honesty,” he continued, after a slight pause. “Hoping to catch them next time they hop over the Atlantic.”

England didn’t trust America as far as he could throw him (which, without magic, was impossible, he couldn’t even pick the fat oaf up off the floor), but he let down his guard. “The Beach Boys,” he admitted, after another pause. “I must admit, the calibre of music coming out of your country has improved significantly.”

“You like some surfing songs, eh, Arthur?” America smirked again. “Hey! Y’know what - I could hook you up with some sick time with Brian if y’want- he’s awful friendly.”

Which, England chose to interpret, meant that America had slept with him after a drunken night. For the American, ‘awful friendly’ just meant ‘is gay or will swing both ways’. 

“I’m not gay, you idiot!” Arthur scowled, taking a step back from Alfred. “And I suppose if you already know _Ringo_ then you’ll know the rest of the boys too - _and_ Mick Jagger.”

America looked hurt for a split second, but the kicked-puppy expression disappeared after a moment, a lapse in concentration perhaps. “Maybe,” he grinned, pushing a hand through his hair. “Hey - Arthur- do you maybe want to grab a drink?”

“No!” Arthur growled out, still feeling touchy from the assertion that he wasn’t as straight as he believed himself to be. But then Alfred looked like a kicked puppy again, and he tried to relax. “I- I mean, no. I can’t tonight. I’ve got to get back to my flat and work on the exit papers for Harold Macmillian.”

“Your boss?” America pulled a face. “But that’s _boring_ , Arthur - come out with me and get some beer down ya!”

England obstinately shook his head. “I can’t tonight,” he said, more kindly now. “But when everything is sorted out, we can see then, hey?”

He was taken aback as the younger nation grinned again and threw his arms around England’s shoulders, squeezing him tightly until he was lifted off the ground. “You’re the best, Artie!”

“Put… me… down… you… oaf!” England huffed out between furious gulps of air, frantically trying to wriggle out of Alfred’s arms. “You’re… hurting… me!”

Finally, after what seemed like years, England was set back on solid ground again. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath back, before glancing up at the other nation for a split second.

_Click!_

_Wait- what was that sound?_

Arthur straightened up again before his blood ran cold in his veins. America was holding a camera triumphantly, an unreadable expression on his face. And England knew - he just knew - that he was absolutely, positively _fucked._

The headline of The Sun the next morning read:

**LOCAL LONDON MAN WITH BEATLES TATTOO ON HIS CHEST: HAS ROCK N ROLL GONE TOO FAR?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Beatles were formed in 1960, their biggest single was Love Me Do in the early years of the decade. 1964 is around the time that they began to get famous in the United States - they first performed in New York on 7th February 1964.
> 
> The Rolling Stones would be pretty new to them, only forming in 1962, but America and England would both be likely to know who they were.
> 
> The Who were formed in 1964, so very new as a band to the setting of this chapter. 'Mods' were known for their fashion (the subculture focused around it) and rode scooters. The British media were obsessed with covering fights between 'mods' and 'rockers' in '64 - when fights between the subcultures broke out. 
> 
> 'Mods' listened to blues inspired British bands like The Who, The Yardbirds (who became Led Zeppelin) and The Small Faces (an amazing, lesser known 60s band - listen to Lazy Sunday by them). 'Rockers' were inspired by '50s rock and roll. 
> 
> The Kinks were also formed in 1964!
> 
> Harold Macmillian was the British Prime Minister who resigned in late '63, the timing is a bit off in this story here but it's likely that his pass over to the next PM would have taken a few months. I'm not too hot on modern British history, I'm a medievalist.
> 
> Brian Wilson, lead singer of The Beach Boys, formed in 1961, probably wasn't gay but I took some artistic licence there.
> 
> And, finally, yes they did have cameras in the mid-60s. Ones that you pushed buttons to use. I had to google this to double-check because, again, medieval historian here, but I'm very sure that this is historically accurate.


	3. 1977

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 1977. England is a punk, and America is erect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love! It's so massively appreciated, and it's giving me the fire I need to finish this multichapter whilst I'm still motivated! 
> 
> I had real issues writing this one, mostly because the 1970s is my favourite era and I wanted to include every song EVER, and Punk!England is a bitch to write well. He's completely OOC for how I usually write Arthur. 
> 
> There is very slight PruCan in this chapter, mentioned in one sentence (maybe two), so sorry if that isn't your ship!

“You’ve got me running, going out of my mind,” America crooned into a hairbrush, ignoring the state of his hair for the moment. His groove was far more important, and at this precise moment in time, he was deep into the beat. “You’ve me thinking that I’m wasting my time-”

In his mind, his backing dancers chorused ‘don’t bring me down’ along to the song, perfectly complimenting Alfred’s vocal skills. The country continued to dance around his hotel room, making sure that the curtains were tight shut as he did so.

He was waiting for that perfect crescendo, to make the musical entrance that was so befitting of him, the one that would make the crowd go wild. America could just about see it now, throngs of people shouting his name and clapping for his appearance. 

Then - there it was. The perfect moment. The change in tempo, the difference in musical rhythm and tone, the ready-made musical entrance time… 

America threw the curtains open, star-spangled boxers on show for all the world to admire and see. “YOU’RE LOOKING GOOD, JUST LIKE A SNAKE IN THE GRASS!”

Someone coughed behind him, and Alfred yelped, frantically shutting the curtains again and diving headfirst onto his bed. Why did the world hate him so much? One moment, he was having the time of his life, and the next-

“Didn’t know you liked a bit of Electric Light Orchestra,  _ Alfie _ ,” the person teased, making Alfred tense up on the bed he was lying on. “The English Invasion is alive and well, eh?”

Sure enough, the interrupter was England. Bane of America’s life, especially in recent years. Gone was the distasteful chest tattoo, and now was the time of excessive piercings and badly dyed black hair, thick eyeliner and embracing the monobrow. Today, he was wearing an incredibly tight leather jacket, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt - wait, were those  _ booty shorts _ ?

England got to his feet, confirming Alfred’s suspicions. Yup, black  _ latex  _ booty shorts with fishnets. What had happened to the previously uptight and proper Arthur that threw Elvis Presley’s record out of the window (rest in peace, Elvis, you will be missed). No, now he seemed like he’d been vomited out of a university campus. Which may very well have been, considering England’s preferred venues to go to for concerts nowadays. 

Alfred could that his jaw was hanging open, and he quickly shut it, hoping to god that he wasn’t blushing. England just smirked, turning away from the other country and very subtly (or maybe not subtly at all) shaking his ass.

“We’ll be late for the World Meeting…” Arthur said as Alfred looked at him in bewilderment. “I’m giving you your wake up call.”

“Arthur,” Alfred sat up properly, finding his glasses on the bedside table and slipping them on. “Are you  _ drunk _ ?”

Arthur just chuckled and shook his ass again ( _ oh god _ Alfred was going to need a cold shower if this went on much longer). “Just a whisky, bab.”

Oh yeah, that was the other thing that had changed recently. England had decided that his fellow country personifications needed to see ‘more than just London’, and so, for some godforsaken reason, had uprooted the World Meeting to-

Birmingham. Also known as, the armpit of the United Kingdom. 

And England’s new favourite city, apparently. He now based himself in a small flat in Five Ways, rather than in Kensington, trying to think that he was down with the punk youth of the moment. Not that he was, England was still centuries old and a grumpy grandpa, even if he had started to dress… Provocatively. 

England opened Alfred’s curtains again. “This is the United Kingdom!” he crowed triumphantly, cracking open one of the windows as well. “The  _ real  _ world! None of that London shite!”

Alfred pulled his shirt on, buttoning it up and walking over to stand next to his friend. To be fair, since the Blitz, the city had been tidied up a little. It was slowly being rebuilt in an unfortunate brutalist style, but that suited Birmingham. Being the armpit of the UK was an important job, and it was crucial that it looked the part. 

Now for his trousers. Alfred was actually wearing  _ meeting-appropriate  _ clothing, unlike England, who was determined to increase America’s erection with every movement. He liked to portray a more… sensible image for his country, especially since the UK was now personified by Sid Vicious’s twink brother. 

“...hmm,” America thought aloud, glancing out the window again and looking down at the water below them. “England?”

“Yes, bab?” England strutted back over to the window again. Alfred determinedly thought about Canada screwing Prussia until his dick calmed down. 

“...is that a dead squirrel or a dead cat in the canal?”

“Oh,” England waved a hand. “Probably both.”

* * *

Call the World Meetings old fashioned, but nobody had ever attended them in tight latex booty shorts before. Alfred was caught between embarrassment and pride as Arthur walked along in front of him along the corridor, attracting the attention of every country there.

“ _ Was _ ?” Germany was the first to speak up about the unusual circumstances, brow furrowed. “ _ Was ist das? Ist es England? Ich habe kein Idee - Feli, wer ist er?” _

England heard the words in German and paused in the middle of the corridor - America almost walking into his back. “I’d like to start today if you don’t mind, as host nation,  _ Deutschland _ .”

Germany relaxed his stance somewhat after realising that the weirdly dressed man was, in fact, England. “Ah,  _ jawohl _ ,” he nodded. “Are you well?”

Arthur just smirked. And nodded slowly, messy black hair drifting down over his face. “Come along, Alfie,” he said silkily, America scurrying along after the punk as he continued along the corridor, towards the meeting room. 

England clearly had a scheme in mind, which was made all the more evident by his mischievous grin as he and the American entered the main room. “Sit down,” he ordered, pulling a chair out for America. “As host, I have prepared - well, let’s just say - a  _ cultural experience _ .”

America enthusiastically sat down, crossing his legs over to obscure - ahem - his growing problem. It was a bit weird that he was feeling this way about  _ England  _ of all people, but he did look good in those shorts. Right now they needed a soundtrack, something like  _ Get It On  _ by T. Rex, or maybe some Bowie…

England seemed blissfully unaware that America was nursing a semi, and was messing around with the order and arrangement of the chairs in the meeting room. “Picture the scene,” he said excitedly, ass in the air as he bent down to get something. Alfred swallowed. “Everyone’s in here - and the lights suddenly… GO OFF!”

He clapped his hands and the lights cut out instantly. America jumped in surprise but quickly calmed himself. He knew England had magic and was perfectly capable of (mostly useless) feats like this. But then the lights flickered back on, and England was left, slightly confused, now standing on the meeting table. 

“Call everyone in, America,” he said quickly, neatly hopping down onto the ground. America nodded quickly, eager to appease this new, sexy England. His brain appeared to have been left in the hotel room, along with any dignity he had left, and his appreciation for Birmingham (drowned cats in a dirty canal was a new level of grim). 

But maybe Alfred should have tried to keep his wits about him, at least a little. Because once all the nations were rounded up, and sat in a rectangular circle around the meeting table, the lights went out once again. Even though America had been half-expecting it, he jumped again, awkwardly reaching out to grab his brother’s hand.

“Ow,” Mattie yelped, pulling his arm away from America. “Watch where you’re putting your arms, idiot.”

America ignored him, knowing that, if he looked around at the Canadian, he would also see ‘ze awesome Prussia’ with his hand down his brother’s trousers. And nobody deserved that kind of pain so early on in the morning. 

But then he realised England had probably lied about the amount of alcohol consumed that morning - and had possibly even moved on to psychedelics. Because there he was, the country personification of England and unelected representative for the United Kingdom, now topless (and thankfully devoid of Beatles tattoo) and waving his arms around at the front of the room.

“THE SEX PISTOLS!” he yelled triumphantly, before leaping towards America. “WELCOME TO ENGLAND, M’HEARTIES!”

America put his head in his hands, as, somehow, a band rose up out of the floor, from an apparent portal to hell. He didn’t recognise them, but he recognised the name of the band as the ones that had inspired Arthur to embrace the punk lifestyle. The ones that had changed his Artie from sweet granddad to badass sex god. 

The band launched into a song about the Queen of England (and apparently how she was a secret fascist), and America took the opportunity to gently take Arthur’s arm. Noting the other country’s quizzical look, he just smiled. “The Prime Minister is here to see you, Arthur.”

Arthur immediately stood up a little straighter, and the pair left the rest of the world to deal with the British anarchist band currently serenading them. “Bloody James Callaghan,” he muttered, struggling to get out of Alfred’s grip. “Alfred - gerrof! I’m fine…”

England was most definitely  _ not  _ fine, but America (for once), bit his tongue. “He’s coming soon,” he soothed, awkwardly stroking Arthur’s arm to try and calm him. “Until then, he wants you to sit in your hotel room and listen to the Jackson 5.”

Arthur pulled a face. “Really?” he whined, collapsing onto Alfred’s left arm. “But they sing about girls… And all I really want is guys…”

America let himself dare to hope for a second that England meant  _ him  _ specifically but quickly stopped that thought before it could become anything bigger. Arthur was drunk, and most probably high too, and he shouldn’t take advantage of the situation. 

No.

What England needed was water, rest and the Jackson 5, and America was going to have to be the one to administer those medicines. Germany would just have to deal with the Sex Pistols and the terror that was Birmingham himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read, comment, kudos! Love y'all so much.
> 
> Why Birmingham? Well, I live there, and it was truly grim in the 1970s. I'm not a modern historian (I am a history student, but I study early modern and medieval history) but I tried to make this as accurate as possible.
> 
> Electric Light Orchestra is one of my favourite 1970s bands, and they were formed in Birmingham. This chapter is a love letter to them and the Sex Pistols, which is my headcanon favourite band/obsession for Punk!England. 
> 
> I didn't find any good 1970s US rock bands to include in here - but the 1980s will be focused on American music (and Duran Duran - another Birmingham band). I'm sorry if my lack of attention to America upset you in this chapter but I love 1970s English rock, and it kind of took over my mind. 
> 
> In the 1970s it was very common for people to drown their cat's kittens in canals rather than go to the trouble of rehoming them (I hate it, trust me, I'm a vegetarian and animal abuse makes me... I can't put it into words). It is sadly accurate for 70s England.


	4. 1989

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred decides that it's high time that he wooed Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love, as usual! Stay safe lads, enjoy this chapter as well while you're at it. I went for something a little different this time, I hope you enjoy the format! I tried to go for a cheesy 80s chick flick feel.

Alfred loved the California sunshine, the feel of the sea spray on his face, the people surfing on the waves in the distance. It was mid-May, and it wasn’t too hot yet, but it was still warm enough to sport shorts and a plain t-shirt. 

It was days like today that the days seemed to melt off his skin, leaving behind a new nation. One that wasn’t quite so old and decrepit. He felt his youth return to him a little more, and the worries of his ongoing issues with Russia disappear. Alfred was okay. He could do this. He was going to be his awesome self and stop worrying. 

He was half-tempted to crack out his surfboard and join the humans out on the water, but Alfred had a goal. A job to do, of sorts. Although calling it a job made it sound like a chore - and Alfred could hear Francis in his mind saying _‘L’amour is no chore, mon ami!’_.

Maybe he should have called France for help? No - that was a stupid idea and one that Alfred was exceedingly glad he hadn’t had earlier. Because it was too late to turn back now, too late to cancel plans and hotel rooms and the like. Right now, he just had to _do_. No more thinking allowed.

This plan had been so many years in the making. Alfred just hoped it would do the trick.

“Okay, I’m here,” Alfred looked away from the sea, and towards Arthur, the personification of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The other man had toned down his style somewhat since the 1980s, but Alfred knew that the other country had kept some of the piercings. Namely, his tongue one, and he was hoping that the belly button bar was still there too. “What do you want?”

Alfred’s tongue-tied for a moment, and he was truly lost for words. What was he going to say, again? The script he’d prepared, everything he’d been working up to until that moment, had left his mind. 

He frantically glanced behind him, and the band on the promenade started up their song - a familiar one, to anyone who kept up with the charts. Alfred was pretty sure this was Arthur’s first time hearing the tune since he had denounced all American music after Kim Wilde swept the UK in 1981. 

Was this going to work? 

“Iggy-” America started, reaching out for England’s hand. England didn’t take it, so America decided to move his hand through his hair instead to soften the blow. “I hear the drums echoing tonight…”

Alfred continued the song, carefully watching Arthur’s expression as he did. He could see the confused, slightly angry on England’s face begin to fade as he realised that America was singing along to the band’s song behind him. “Okay, okay,” England smirked, rolling his eyes at Alfred’s antics. “I get it, you like music. Now, what are we actually here for?”

“I stopped an old man along the way,” Alfred continued to sing, thanking all that was holy in the world that he’d taken up Stevie Wonder’s offer of singing lessons back in the 60s. “Hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies-”

Thankfully, England seemed to get the point now, or at least realise that America wasn’t about to stop singing for love nor money, and leant back against the railing, button-up shirt riding up somewhat to reveal a pale stomach (and, yes, a belly-button ring). He didn’t say anything, however, just looking straight into Alfred’s eyes. 

“It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from youuuuuu,” Alfred sang out, letting his voice rise somewhat, ignoring the crowd that was beginning to gather around the couple. “There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do-”

Arthur was blushing slightly, perhaps actually reading into the words coming out of Alfred’s mouth, as was intended. Alfred smiled confidently and continued the song. “I bless the rains down in Africaaaaaaa-”

Face crack of the century. Blush turned to frown, eyes turned from humourous and joyful to incredulous and angry. Alfred stopped singing immediately, but the band carried on, nonetheless. “Iggy?” Alfred asked quietly, half-hoping that England would crack a smile and tell him to keep singing, or to kiss him - or to do both. “...you okay?”

“You know I lost the last of my African colonies back in 1965!” Arthur growled, standing up straight again, readjusting his top. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No!” Alfred insisted, the tips of his ears turning pink from the embarrassment. _Yes, I_ should _have gone to France for help with this!_ “No, it’s not! I promise! Uh…”

He frantically looked around for some sort of inspiration and wracked his brain thoroughly. Of all the songs in the world, he had to pick one that triggered Arthur Kirkland. 

It seemed like an age that Alfred was thinking before he spotted a billboard advertising the band U2, mounted up onto one of the skyscrapers that lined the beachfront. America’s eyes widened, and he gestured to the band (who _finally_ stopped playing _Africa_ ) and pointed up to the board. 

The band behind him began to play again, and Alfred relaxed again, reaching forward to grasp England’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely, and hoped that the emotion was felt in the words. Thankfully, Arthur stilled. “I have climbed… the highest mountains…” 

Arthur probably knew this band, as they were Irish, after all, but it was Alfred’s best bet. However, it was also Alfred’s fatal flaw in that he failed to notice the expression on the other country’s face, who knew the title of the song, and also the message behind it. 

“And I still, haven’t found, what I’m looking fo-” Alfred’s eyes widened as he realised what he was singing, and let go of Arthur’s arm. “Dudes, are you kidding me? I point at a U2 poster when I’m trying to go for _romance_ , and you pick _that song_?”

“Sorry,” the lead singer shrugged. “It’s the only U2 song we know.”

“Look, this was nice and all,” Arthur pulled his jacket more tightly around his shoulders. “But this seems like it’s been a waste of time.”

“NO!” Alfred yelled, before he realised how loud he was and awkwardly cleared his throat. “No - Artie, please. _One_ more try?”

Arthur looked like he had half a mind to say no, but after a moment or so of thought, he nodded slowly. “One more try,” he replied reluctantly. “Spit it out, yank.”

Alfred beamed, and whipped around to face the band. “Option F!” he exclaimed. “No more U2, dudes.”

The lead singer sighed heavily but motioned to his band to start the song. “You’re paying me double for this, Jones,” he complained, as Alfred turned back to sing along to the soundtrack provided. 

“Hey hey hey HEY!” Alfred knew this was a winner, the second that a small smile appeared on Arthur’s face. “Ooooooooooooooeeeeooooooohhhhhhoooooooooohhhhhhh…”

America took advantage of the letdown of England’s guard and grasped the other nation’s hand, pulling him closer. “Won’t you, come see about me,” he began, smirking at the blush spreading across Arthur’s face. “I’ll be alone, dancing, you know it baby-” Alfred accompanied these lyrics with a couple of pelvic hip thrusts, earning a few whoops and a wolf-whistle from the assembled crowd. 

The song continued, and Alfred continued to sing, closely meeting and matching Arthur’s eyes at all times. He squeezed England’s hand tightly, giving him a smirk and a wink as they moved into the chorus. 

“Don’t you!” he yelled, abandoning the tune in favour of a twirl, then a stumble into the railing. “FORGET ABOUT ME! DON’T DON’T DON’T DON’T!”

“Oh, come here, you bloody yank,” England gave a rare laugh and pulled Alfred closer to him. “You could have just said ‘do you want to come for dinner’?”

Alfred pulled a face. “But that’s not cool enough, iggy!” he insisted, ignoring Arthur’s eyeroll. “And I wanted to embarrass you!”

Arthur blushed deeply, hiding his face from the America. “Will you recognise me? Call my name or walk on byyyyy,” Alfred continued, wiggling his hips and ass for the benefit of the crowd. “Rain keeps falling, rain keeps fallin-mmmppf!”

Thankfully for both Arthur’s fragile ego and the ears of the assembled onlookers, England had decided that enough was enough and that the singing needed to stop. So he’d grabbed the top of Alfred’s top and pulled him closer, crushing their lips together.

The crowd cheered. The band continued to play for a little while before getting bored and returning to U2. And Alfred had another man in his bed that night, and onwards into the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kim Wilde's song Kids In America was number 1 in the UK in 1981, hence why I thought Arthur might be a little miffed at a mini 'American Invasion'!  
> The UK lost it's last West African colony in 1965, which was the Gambia.
> 
> The first song Alfred sings is obviously Africa by Toto, released in 1980!  
> The second song is I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For by U2 (one of my favourite bands), released in 1987 - check it out on my playlist and you'll see why Arthur's so mad...  
> The last song is the ultimate 1980s teen romcom song, Don't You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds! Three words: The Breakfast Club.


	5. 1996

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter may include R.E.M. puns and general fluffiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to write - I've recently been ill and only really started feeling better today, so I didn't really feel up to writing! Don't worry, it wasn't the rona, it was probably something brought on by stress knowing me.
> 
> This chapter is just full-on USUK fluff. Please don't expect anything else from this. I'm thinking of getting some angst in for the 2000s chapter, so if you wanted more than just candyfloss don't worry ;)
> 
> Thank you for all the support, as always! :)

There was nothing Alfred enjoyed more than waking up next to his boyfriend after a long night of sleeping, dreaming about walking burgers and -  _ ah _ \- less G-rated things. That was if even the sight of a gay pairing wasn’t enough to earn a PG rating, but think about that would just make America sad, and this was a morning to be happy.

Alfred laughed at Arthur’s peaceful expression, so different from his usual scowl, and brushed a piece of blonde hair away from the other nation’s forehead. Normally he would wake his lover up in a way that made England yelp and chase after him, but today America was feeling uncharacteristically loving. 

He dropped a kiss to Arthur’s left eyebrow, and then his right. He pulled away as England stirred in his sleep, green eyes slowly flickering open, and mouth turning up into a smile at the hovering American. 

“Morning, love,” Arthur yawned, words slurred and full of sleep. Alfred moved back somewhat to give the other space to stretch out. “You feeling okay?”

“Me?” Alfred was acutely aware that his voice was far too loud for the early hour of the morning, as he winced - but shook it off quickly. “I’m fine, Artie! Just wanted to give ya the wake up call, yanno?”

Arthur hummed and stretched out his arms. This was the normal unspoken plea for more cuddles or early-morning bad breath sex, but Alfred resisted the urge to answer it today. He chuckled and got to his feet, shaking his ass a little in Arthur’s face in some ridiculous taunt. 

“Arse,” Arthur’s words were muffled by the duvet he was safely ensconced in. 

Alfred just laughed loudly, wincing again as the sound cut through the otherwise peaceful house. “You know ya love it, Alfie!” he beamed, pulling a pair of underwear up over his up-to-then-exposed nether regions. 

Judging by the relative silence from the bed behind him, England had either fallen asleep again or dropped the subject of Alfred’s backside for now. America allowed himself a small smile as he glanced in the mirror, tidying his messy brown-blonde hair and straightening Nantucket.  _ I’m the hero!  _ He thought to himself, clicking his tongue and pointing finger guns at his reflection. 

Arthur snorted from the duvet, and Alfred turned around with a mock-hurt expression on his face. He held a hand to his heart in disbelief, pretending to wipe tears away from his eyes. “You wound me!” America let out a fake sob. “I thought you loved my morning routine!”

“Fuck you, America,” England smirked, head the only thing poking out from under the covers now. 

“Later, Artie,” America laughed and ducked a pillow thrown his way. “I promised to make us brekkie, remember?”

Arthur didn’t comment at this, which prompted Alfred to readdress his morning plans somewhat. Breakfast and coffee (tea for Arthur) could wait for a moment. There were more important causes to be had.

America launched himself forward, stomach first, onto the bed, lifting Arthur into the air for a split second with the force of the belly-flop. A yelp emitted from the older nation at the action, but Alfred grabbed him before Arthur could squirm away claiming anger at his former colony. 

“I claim this land in the name of the Northern American continent!” he yelled out, grabbing Arthur by the armpits and pulling him up to his bare chest. “AHA! You have submitted to the might of the great United States of America!”

“No, I have not, you idiot!” Arthur attempted to break out of Alfred’s vice-like grip but was quickly thwarted by the other country’s superior strength. “I’m the United bloody Kingdom! Let me go!”

Alfred would have been very happy and incredibly willing to carry on this charade until England fully submitted to the conquering powers of the USA, but was sadly interrupted. By an alarm clock, of all things. 

Thankfully Alfred had seen the good sense to turn the alarm to be a radio station when it went off, which was a little more pleasant than the incessant beeping of a digital clock, or the tinny sound of a more traditional timekeeping device. So, although Arthur groaned and put the pillow over his ears at the noise, Alfred was delighted by the interruption. 

He quickly abandoned his quest to conquer the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, in favour of an impromptu dance along to the song now blasting from the radio.

Alfred hummed along, pulling out some stilted moves from his spot on top of the bed, including a half-hearted moonwalk and a couple of hip thrusts. He quickly decided that the best place to dance would be right over his boyfriend’s trapped body, rather than on the floor. 

“Gerrof me, idiot,” Arthur harrumphed, burying his face into the pillow. “I hate that song.”

“Oh, do you now?” Alfred smirked, now having perfect ammunition to use against his long-suffering significant other. “ _ She’s lump- she’s lump- she’s in my head! _ ”

The song continued, and Alfred broke out his honestly  _ amazing  _ (if you were going to ask him) air guitar skills, still thrusting over Arthur’s now completely prone body. The American continued his gyrations for a little longer before he realised his boyfriend was no longer responding to his teasing.

Alfred paused, and pressed a button on the alarm. It emitted a loud beep and shut off. Finally, Arthur peeped up from over the covers again. “Thank you, America,” he breathed out, glaring up at his lover. “Are you coming back to bed?”

“Nope!” Alfred popped his lips, ignoring Arthur’s wince at the noise “Breakfast, remember?”

“Why, you bloody oaf?” Arthur’s eyes were still slightly bloodshot from sleep, but he seemed to be waking up a little now. “Why now?”

“Becauseeeeeeee-” Alfred sang out, flopping back down onto the mattress and moving his lips next to Arthur’s ear. He paused, waiting until the Englishman began to blush, before continuing the sentence. “It’s Friday - I’m in loveeeeeeeeeee!”

No response (at least not immediately). Alfred peeked up from where his face was smushed into the duvet and laughed loudly at the bright red blush on Arthur’s face. 

“It’s not funny!” Arthur huffed out, although he was smiling now. “Ah, at least it’s not another bloody R.E.M. reference.”

“What do you mean!” Alfred held a hand to his heart and looked up to the ceiling. “Michael Stipe is god. We are but his disciples here on planet earth. We are all his Shiny Happy People."

Arthur rolled his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Everybody Hurts, Alfred,” he smirked, pulling his boyfriend back to him. “Don’t I even get a good morning kiss?”

“Just for you, Artie,” Alfred smiled back, gently pressing his lips to Arthur’s. It was only supposed to be a slow, sweet kiss, but Arthur was quickly licking Alfred’s lips, asking for entrance to his mouth. Alfred granted it, and soon the pair were lazily snogging, wrapping their arms around each other, small moans coming from their mouths.

Finally, Alfred pulled himself together again and moved away, wiping away a little saliva with the back of his hand. “Watch out, Artie,” he said, in a musing, gruff voice. “Much more of that and you’ll have me Losing My Religion.”

Arthur barked a laugh, and raised a hand to Alfred’s face, brushing some sandy blonde hair out of the other man’s face. “You’re a Creep,” he mused, kissing the American nation’s forehead. “You should be lucky that I love you.”

At the mention of the word ‘love’, Alfred’s face lit up. He ignored the move from R.E.M. puns into Radiohead territory, and the move from American to British bands, and instead hugged his boyfriend again. “I love ya too, Artie,” he beamed, kissing Arthur’s forehead in return. “Now- for realsies!”

“Don’t butcher the English language, you bloody American wanker!” Yup, the tender moment was now completely lost. Alfred just laughed and jumped back before Arthur could communicate his displeasure with a well-placed whack. 

“Let’s get you some Breakfast At Tiffany’s!” he grinned, finally pulling on some tartan pyjama pants. “Full English, Artie?”

Arthur paused, clearly in two minds as he struggled with the internal monologue as to whether he should accept Alfred after the multiple uses of his hated nickname. Moral integrity, or black pudding and bacon with baked beans? A hash brown, or feeling superior? Fried bread, or being- _Oh, who was he kidding?_

“Yes please,” Arthur sighed, lowering himself back down to the mattress to hide the flush on his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfred's morning routine was inspired by the very first scene from White Gold. It's actually set in the 1980s but Ed Westwick dancing in front of a mirror just seemed like such an Alfred F. Jones thing to do. You're welcome. I unfortunately couldn't find a clip on YouTube to link you guys to, but if you search White Gold you'll get some great British comedy.
> 
> The first song (on the radio): Lump by The Presidents of the United States of America. I have a personal headcanon that this is Alfred's favourite band of all time. It came out in 1995!
> 
> Then we have Friday (I'm In Love) by The Cure - which might be one of my favourite bands of all time! I truly love all of their songs.
> 
> R.E.M. is also one of my favourite 90s bands, hence all the puns I made in this chapter (am I sorry? Not really). Michael Stipe is their lead singer! Songs referenced:
> 
> Shiny Happy People (1991)  
> Everybody Hurts (1992)  
> Losing My Religion (1991)
> 
> And then we have Creep by Radiohead (1992)
> 
> And then, finally Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something, released in 1995.


End file.
